Tell by the Water Cooler
by sakura rakuen
Summary: Ch. 37 is up. Drabble-y oneshots; jokes you can tell to your just-as-APH-obsessed friends.
1. Chapter 1

"Grund, wie ist unsere Anfang-Abfertigungszeit?" Ludwig barked into his mouthpiece, gloved hands tightening on the plane's controls.

For some reason, it was Alfred who answered him.

"Nuh-uh, if you want an answer you gotta speak English!" he snickered in between bites of a burger.

Ludwig sighed. "I am a German. Flying a German plane. In _Germany_. Why do I need to speak English?"

There was a sound of a small scuffle. The voice that answered was unmistakably Arthur's.

"Because you lost the bloody war!"

Somewhere in the background, he swore he could hear Feliks' giggles of "Like, totally pwned."

* * *

A/N: Apparently this was [more or less] an actual exchange, overheard by a Pan Am 727 flight, waiting for start clearance in Munich.

Ludwig's opening line roughly means 'Ground, what is our start clearance time?" But you can never trust online translations.


	2. Chapter 2

It was WWII. After being on the front lines of Europe for two months, Alfred was ready for his well-earned break. He and Arthur caught a boat to the supply base in southern England, and then boarded a train to London.

The train was extremely crowded, but they finally found a compartment with room. Arthur collapsed into two of the seats, taking a swig from a silver flask as he did so. Al didn't blame him; he'd been fighting the war practically single-handed up until now. This only reminded him of how tired he was as well, and he looked around for a seat.

The compartment held four total. Artie was using two. And the others were occupied by a stuffy-looking old lady and her dog. Putting on his Hero Smile®, he posed and asked, "Can I sit here?"

The lady jerked back as if struck, and sniffed haughtily. "You Americans are so _rude_. Can't you see my Tilly is sitting here?"

Miffed, Alfred turned around and tried moving Arthur off one of the seats, but the nation was out cold from sheer exhaustion. He whimpered when America tried shaking him awake, and so he gave up and turned back to the woman.

"Look lady, I love dogs too," America ran a hand through his hair. "I'd be happy to hold your puppy if I could just sit down."

"You Americans are not only rude, you are arrogant to boot," the woman wrinkled her nose in disgust.

Alfred leaned against the wall for a while, but eventually his legs started to ache with exhaustion. "Please. I've been fighting those Germans for months without stop. Could I _please_ just sit here?" his knees trembled, but he remained upright.

"So. Americans are not only rude and arrogant, they're also obnoxious," was the reply.

Alfred lost it. With a war cry, he seized the woman's dog and hurled it bodily out the window, plopping himself down contentedly on the newly-freed seat. The woman was speechless.

"Alfred."

Shit. Apparently he'd woken Arthur. The stocky nation looked at him with bleary green eyes.

"I dunno whether to agree with her or not. I know you Americans do a lot of things wrong. You drive on the wrong side of the road, you hold your fork with the wrong hand, and now you've thrown the wrong bloody bitch out the window."

* * *

A/N: …support the troops! I tried to go for some subtle USxUK in this, but I'm not sure if it's noticeable.


	3. Chapter 3

Italy had invited the nations to an art viewing/ pasta dinner. Currently stuffed; Francis, Arthur, and Ivan were looking at a painting of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.

Feeling the need to comment [and to piss off the frog], Arthur put forth, "Look at their calmness, their poise. They must be British."

"Non, mon ami; zey are naked, and so beautiful. Clearly, zey are French."

"No clothes, no shelter," interjected a gloomy Russia. "Only an apple to eat, and they are being told they are in paradise. They are Russian."

* * *

A/N: The shortest of the lot.


	4. Chapter 4

England swallowed nervously. He had agreed to come drinking with some of his brothers to try and patch up their relationship, seeing as how he now represented the entire United Kingdom and—alright, he couldn't turn down free booze.

Ireland walked straight up to the bar and patted the seats next to him. England sat on his left, Scotland on his right. Three foaming tankards of beer were instantly shoved before the trio. But before they could even raise them to their lips, a fly landed in each one.

There was a pause as the nations contemplated the odds of such a thing.

Looking put out, England pushed his beer away and demanded another.

Scotland picked the fly out of his with a shrug and took a healthy, if hesitant, swig.

Ireland pinched the fly between his fingers and began shaking the poor thing while yelling, "Spit it out, ya bastard! Spit it out!

* * *

A/N: In case I didn't make this clear before; I mean no offense to any nation/race/ethnic group. These are jokes, people. And if you get easily offended by stereotypes, why are you into Hetalia?


	5. Chapter 5

Kiku re-read the letter he had just received from America. IBM had decided to have certain parts manufactured in Japan, and would accept three defective parts per ten thousand.

Wondering if he would ever understand the west, Kiku set to work.

Weeks later, Alfred received his order, along with a letter:

_America-san,_

_I have had a hard time understanding North American business practices. But the 3 defective parts per 10,000 have been separately manufactured and included in this shipment. I hope it is satisfactory._

_Best regards,_

_Japan._

* * *

A/N: Aiyah, little Kiku and his...slight OCD.


	6. Chapter 6

After the Great Britain Beer Festival, in London, all the Presidents of the breweries decide to go to the pub for a drink. Unbeknownst to them, their respective nations followed suit.

America was unsuprisingly the first to reach the counter. "I'll have the beer that_ heroes_ drink, made with Rocky Mountain Spring Water...a Coors!" he gave the bemused bartender a thumbs-up.

"Hatters Dark," England went next. "Figures the only beer you can handle is watered down, Alfred."

Holland shouldered through and proudly asked for "One Dam good Bier." The bartender gave him an Amstel.

Prussia snorted and shoved Lithuania off a seat so he could sit down. "Gimme a coke."

Taken aback., seeing as how the albino was decked in a shirt that proclaimed his love for Krombacher Brauerei, the bartender nonetheless gave him what he'd asked for.

"Oy, Pr—Gilbert," England tilted his head. "Why'd you order a coke?"

Grinning, the former nation leaned back and said, "Well, I kinda figure if none of you pansies are drinking beer, neither should I."

* * *

A/N: If you're wondering why Gilbert rather than Ludwig is representing German Beer, its because I love Gilbert more. I'm sorry.


	7. Chapter 7

"Please, _please_ don't mess this up." Germany knew his words were falling on deaf ears, but he had to try. His country was hosting an international summer camp in the name of foreign relations, which he really needed after the fiasco that had been World War Two.

He still didn't see why or how Gilbert ended up being the 'scoutmaster'. But he was. And one of Alfred's top reporters was interviewing him today.

"...and no drinking during the interview—or before," he added hastily. Looking put out, Prussia nodded. And so it began.

* * *

That same night, Ludwig paced in front of the television, waiting to see if his brother had indeed behaved himself.

Gilbert had refused a suit and opted for a military uniform instead (biting his lip, Ludwig wondered if he should've allowed that). Opposite him was a young blonde woman in a red blouse and white skirt. Their discourse went something like this:

"So, Mr. Beilschmidt, what things are you going to teach these boys when they visit your camp?"

"Oh, the basics; climbing, canoeing, archery, and shooting."

The woman's eyes widened. "Shooting! That's a bit irresponsible, isn't it?"

"Huh? I don't see why, they'll be properly supervised on the rifle range."

"But don't you admit that this is a terribly dangerous activity to be teaching children?"

"Not really. We'll be teaching the brats proper rifle discipline before they even touch a firearm."

The woman frowned. "But you're equipping them to become violent killers!"

Gilbert shrugged. "Well, you're equipped to be a prostitute, but you're not one, are you?"

* * *

A/N: This'll prolly be my last update for a while. Midterms are next week.


	8. Chapter 8

England was ill again. There had been terrorist activity in his country, and it was taking its toll on him. That's why America was here. Not because he was worried or anything, y'know, but um...England couldn't make tea in his state, so he would just have to make it for him. Yes! That's what heroes did!

But once Alfred was at his former mentor's bedside, he recoiled. England was breathing heavily, straining to fill his lungs. He opened his eyes and saw America. His eyes clouded over with emotion, and he reached for a notepad nearby. With the last of his strength, he wrote a note and pressed it into Alfred's hand.

Alfred didn't remember slipping the note into his pocket, he was too busy shaking Arthur and yelling for him to wake up, to _please_ wake up. That was when Arthur's brothers, who had been waiting outside, rushed in. Ireland even started murmuring a prayer.

Alfred curled his fists inside his jacket, his skin brushing paper. He suddenly remembered the note. Hastily, he opened it, thinking it might be something memorable or heartfelt from Iggy.

It said: YOU WANKER—GET OFF MY OXYGEN PIPE!!!

* * *

A/N: I'm back! This one isn't all that funny, but I'm recovering from midterms, please have pity.


	9. Chapter 9

"Mai più!" Lovino swore as he disembarked from his plane. Thank god he was back home. Veneciano was usually the one who went on diplomacy visits; it was the only thing he was good at, in Lovino's opinion, but he'd recently been chumming it up at that Macho Potato's house. Leaving his brother to go to America. And he was still there; leaving his brother with no one to vent to. Unless—

Reddening in anger, he headed for Spain's house.

Five minutes later found him well into a bottle of Tequila while Spain lamented the loss of one of the few gifts Mexico had even given him.

"So my boss said that Veneciano _deserved_ a break at that potato's house since that last trip to Russia, and I got saddled with the job."

"Lovi—"

"I'm not finished." he discarded the glass he'd been using up to this point and started drinking directly from the bottle. For his part, Antonio wasn't too keen on stopping him. An intoxicated Lovino was well worth a rant or two. So he put on his most attentive expression and let the Italian continue.

"At first it was okay. Then I got offa da plane," the alcohol was bringing out his accent.

"So I go to a bigga hotel. Ina morning I go to eat brekfast. I tella waitress I wanna two pissis toast. She brings me only one piss. I tella her I want two piss. She says go to the toilet. I say you no understand. I wanna two piss onna my plate. She say you better not not piss on plate you sonna ma bitch.

Later I go to eat at the bigga restaurant. The waitress brings me a spoon and knife but no fock. I tella her I wanna fock. She tell me everyone does. I tella her you no understand, I wanna fock on the table. She say better not fock on table, you sonna ma bitch. I don't even know the lady and she call me a sonna ma bitch.

So I go to my room inna hotel, and there is no sheit. I call the manager and tella him I wanna a sheit. He tella me go to the toilet. I say you no understand, I wanna sheit on my bed. He say you better not piss on bed you sonna ma bitch. I don't even know the man and he call me a sonna ma bitch.

I go to da checkout and da man at front say: 'Peace unto you' so I say 'Piss unto you too, ya sonna ma bitch. I gonna back to Italy!'" he finished with a hiccup.

* * *

A/N: Mai piu is Italian for "Never again!" Or so google says.


	10. Chapter 10

"Ve, Germany!"

The aforementioned nation tried desperately to quell the twitching of his eyebrow as he calmly answered, "What is it Italy?"

"I got a new airline!"

"Really?" It wasn't often Veneciano would stray from the topics of futbol and pasta.

"Uh-huh. It's in Genoa!"

"That's great. What's it called?"

"GenItalia!"

* * *

A/N: Just in case you were wondering what Veneciano was doing at Ludwig's while his poor brother suffered in America.


	11. Chapter 11

_Dear Diary,_

_I was so awsome today! West asked me to run a marathon._

_At first I said, 'Naaahhh!'_

_But then he said to me 'Come on, it's for handicapped and blind kids.'_

_Then I thought........_

_Fuck...I could win this!_

_ -Prussia the Awsome_

_

* * *

_

A/N: Just a random tidbit...you should all go out and read Prussian Nights, by Aleksandr Isaevich Solzhenitsyn. It's a poem about the Red Army's march through East Prussia during the final days of WWII. You won't find it in the humor section, I assure you, but read it anyway.


	12. Chapter 12

Neither France nor England could honestly remember what they were arguing about. That didn't mean that they were about to admit it, however. Instead they continued to trade insults with increasing venom.

France was the first to truly snap.

"Angleterre! I am convinced zat when you die, your gravestone will read 'Arthur Kirkland—Cold as Ever.'"

"Yeah?" England replied. "When you die, yours will say, "'Francis Bonnefoy—Stiff At Last.'"

* * *

A/N: Not sure if I spelled France's surname right.


	13. Chapter 13

Poland wasn't sure how he'd ended up as a flight attendant. He'd told Russia he wanted to be a _pilot_, but that guy apparently went out of his way to make sure all his satellite nations were completely miserable. Still, it wasn't so bad. The skirt was cut well, and was an undeniable upgrade from the coarse clothes he'd been reduced t wearing since WWII.

"Okay, lovely people! We're gonna, like, land the plane now, so if you could just like put up your trays, that'd be super!"

Most people complied, smiling all the while. Poand beamed; he loved putting others into a good mood. However, on his way to the front, he noticed one woman had remained stoic in her seat, not moving a muscle.

"Oh, maybe you, like, didn't hear me over those big brute engines. I asked you to please put up your trays, since we're like, totally gonna land soon."

The woman turned her head gracefully towards him. Feliks noticed she was rather well-dressed. Her accent, when she spoke, was obviously German, but elegant and soronous. She was doubtlessly one of Austria's.

"In my country, I am called Duchess. I take orders from no one," she told him primly.

Feliks twitched.

"Well, _sorr-ee_, honey, but in my country, I am called a Queen, so I outrank you. Now tray up, bitch."

* * *

A/N: Again, not meant to offend. I'm simply taking some well-known jokes and transferring them to APH-verse.


	14. Chapter 14

Alfred was in Moscow, and as such could never be too paranoid. He looked around. He looked up. Down. Behind him. Under his left arm. No one.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he dropped his bag of garbage on the front lawn of the hotel he was staying at.

"It is against my laws to litter, Америкa."

Stifling a squeal that would've had England in hysterics had he heard it, Alfred turned around to face the nation that apparently had the ability to pop out of a hole on the ground, or something.

"Heh—I wasn't littering, Russia! I was just…resting my arms! This stuff is pretty heavy, you know!" Alfred knew he was a bad liar. But Russia seemed to buy it. His face brightened and the pipe in his hand vanished abruptly.

"Ah, then why didn't you ask one of my people to help you find a trash can? Nevermind, I can take you, Да?"

Nervously, Alfred followed him. They stopped at a a white marble building with a well-manicured lawn; a lively green despite the winter, with bright patches of wildflowers flourishing near the stepping stones.

"You can just dump it anywhere," Russia waved a hand flippantly. Raising an eyebrow but nonetheless relieved, Alfred turned the bag upside down on the grass. A wave of apple cores, hamburger wrappers, soda bottles, and half-eaten candy bars flooded on the ground. He hadn't been lying about the bag being heavy.

"So, um—thanks then. Is this like…Russian hospitality?" he asked.

Ivan laughed. "No, comrade! It's the American embassy."

* * *

A/N: The russian bits here mean 'America' and 'yes', respectively.


	15. Chapter 15

The Allies were at a bar. After the Battle of the Bulge, they felt it was well-earned. Russia and China had gone off to...talk, leaving the blonde trio together.

All was going well, until France spotted a mirror at the opposite end of the bar. He stood up, running his hands through his hair, happy at an opportunity to gaze upon the perfection that was—

"Hold it!" England pulled him back. "That's a faerie mirror. Leave it be."

America snorted into his drink, muttering that he knew they should've gone drinking in his country instead. Glaring, England began to explain.

"It's enchanted; been hanging there since the time the Cromwells were in power. If you stand in front of it and tell the truth about yourself, you get a reward. If you lie, you get a punishment. Try it if you don't believe me."

Raising an eyebrow as if offended, France marched to the mirror (after all, how dare Angleterre imply he had ever been anything but completely honest?)

"Ahem…I think I am the most attractive man in this bar."

Immediately, a trapdoor opened under him. England was in stitches, watching the whole thing. America frowned.

"Hey Iggy, if you think you're so truthful, why don't you do it?"

"What? Hey, I warned the bloke not to mess with faerie magic. He got what he deserved."

"Yeah, but that doesn't change the fact that you're scared to go."

"Oh yeah?" Damn this American for getting a rise out of him so quickly!

"Yeah! Me, the hero, says so!"

"Hmph. Well, how about this then…I'll go if you will."

"Umm—"

"The hero scared?"

"N-no! I'm going. Are you?"

"Abso-bloody-lutely!"

They marched, as one, to the mirror. Bar patrons looked on in mild interest.

"You first."

"You first."

"Together then."

"On three."

"**I think—"**

The trapdoor opened under them.

* * *

A/N: Greece was at that bar. That is the only reason France's claim turned out to be a lie. The **_only_** reason.

Also, anyone else think that ever since APH, 'Battle of the Bulge' sounds hilarious? *Slapped by a nun*


	16. Chapter 16

Japan nervously boarded the train. He had long since become accustomed to the machines, but it was his companions he was worried about.

Sadiq Adnan and Heracles Karpusi were trying to squeeze through the doorway at the same time, glaring all the while, neither giving an inch. Eventually they both fell through, tumbling onto the floor. Sighing, Kiku offered a hand up to each of them. They managed to find their seats without further trouble.

Unfortunately, their compartment was empty of any other people, so the Mediterraneans took it as a sign that they could trade insults as much as they wanted. About five minutes in, the lights started to flicker. Abruptly, the entire train was plunged into darkness.

There was a small cry of surprise, followed by the ringing sound of a slap.

A few seconds later, the lights came back on. Japan was flushed crimson, rubbing at his lips. Greece held a hand gingerly to a glaring handprint on his cheek. Turkey was sprawled on the floor, holding his stomach, a smirk on his face.

Japan's thoughts: One of them kissed me. But since they both appear injured I am not certain as to who tried to defend my honor. If they start arguing I can slip out and perhaps see if the train has security tapes…and perhaps a first-aid kit…Heracles-san's face will be swelling soon, and it would not do to allow him to arrive at the UN meeting like this…

Greece's thoughts: That bastard kissed Kiku! Well, he obviously didn't like it, seeing as how he tried to hit him…I just wish he hadn't missed and gotten me instead. Oh well, he realized his mistake and must've kicked him to the floor. Aaaw, Kiku looks flustered now, wish I had a camera…

Turkey's thoughts: Life is good. I got to steal a kiss from Kiku and hit that arrogant Greek in one go! Now as long as don't laugh, they won't figure it out…

* * *

A/N: I love JapanXTurkey. Just putting it out there. Please; someone, anyone, write a story for it!

P.S. This doesn't mean I don't also ship Giripan, ok?


	17. Chapter 17

"Gilbert, the brakes—"

It was too late. As the two brothers exited their car, they could clearly see that the poor animal was dead. Gilbert felt a twinge of guilt, but it was drowned in disbelief.

"Okay, seriously, how does a pig wind up on a road in this day and age? I know this is a rural area, but _Gott_."

"Bruder, let's just—"

"Deutschland! What is the holdup?!"

"Mein gott, your boss is a prick. We stop for _three seconds_ to—"

But West was already behind the wheel (in _his_ spot!), apologizing to the Fuehrer. Prussia's expression went stony, but he nonetheless climbed into the car. Hitler did not acknowledge him.

Once they arrived at the rally, Gilbert took his brother aside.

"I need to go back, ok? Gimme the keys."

"What? No, this speech is—"

"Sure to end with the people storming out after being hit with your boss's spit for like the fiftieth time. That man has a speech impediment, West, I swear! Anyway, gimme my keys. I need to go back to that pig we ran over."

"Gilbert, forgive me if I don't trust you to drive alone after the last time."

"I was drunk West, doesn't count."

"Why do you need to go back?"

"Well, I…" Gilbert seemed to deflate a bit. "I know your economy's not the best right now, and I'm worried that pig might've really mattered to that family. Lemme just go back and pay them for it, alright?" he finished gruffly, as if this act of kindness was the most embarrassing thing he could think of.

Ludwig gave him the keys, stunned and a little bit touched by his brother's consideration.

This didn't last long. Gilbert didn't come back until five hours later. His boss had been furious, and had to be driven back by some SS officers instead. When Ludwig spotted the familiar coal-colored BMW, he was ready to strangle his brother.

But Gilbert was _humming_, of all things. He was obviously drunk, and even the bird on his head seemed to be stumbling. But the passenger seat was full of bread and wurst and all sorts of foods. Ludwig even saw chocolate—a scarcity in these times.

"Were you…shopping?" he asked incredulously.

"Nope! Got it all free!"

"But how? And where have you been these past hours? Do you realize the consequences of your little trip?!"

"Aaw, c'mon, I even got strudel! I went to the farm of the family whose pig I squished. And I told 'em I squished it. And they gave me this stuff," he pointed to the food. "And _beer_. They run a brewery, ya see. Anyway, we got into a drinking contest and—"

"Wait. They gave you free beer and groceries because you killed their livestock?"

"Hey, I don't get it either. It was probably my awesomeness. They couldn't resist."

"You…you didn't give away your Name, did you? What exactly did you tell them?"

"Course I didn't! I just said to em, 'I'm Hitler's chauffeur, and I've killed the pig.'"


	18. Chapter 18

Arthur shifted in his seat. Bloody _France_ would just not stop staring. So what if they were having lunch together? It was strictly for diplomatic ties, the man shouldn't get any ideas.

Finally, a waitress came over to their table and asked them what they would like. Francis simply ordered the Basil salmon terrine with almond glaze and cabecou cheese. Then it was Arthur's turn.

"I'll have a quickie."

The woman's face twisted in rage and embarrassment, and she quickly slapped him. Straightening her skirt, she managed to regain her composure and asked him once again what his order was.

"A quickie, _please_?" he repeated, slightly dazed.

Another slap. Arthur was sure he could taste blood by now. Across from him, Francis leaned forward cautiously and murmured, "Mon ami, I think it's pronounced _quiche_."

* * *

A/N: Because I cannot pronounce French to save my life.


	19. Chapter 19

It was evening in Beijing. Wang Yao was starving, but the Great Leap Forward meant he was also fasting, whether he liked it or not. Really, all this modernization—Kiku hadn't had as much trouble with it, he remembered. Thinking of Kiku brought a pang to his chest, and he suddenly felt angry.

"Mao! We have no hot water, aru! We have no food! We have nothing, aru!" he fell to his knees, tears cutting into his vision. He suddenly felt himself being lifted up by his hair. Two members of the Red Guard—oh, if Confucius could see what had become of respect for elders!—were forcing him up and steering him towards a building he could hardly see through his tears.

Yao was handed over to other guards and led downstairs. He was strapped to a chair, and an unloaded gun was fired in front of him repeatedly. The men were only trying to scare him; they wouldn't dare beat their nation when they so desperately needed him to be strong. After an hour or so, he was released, the officials satisfied that he would not relapse.

Yao nonetheless started muttering to himself as he walked home. "We have no bullets, aru! We have nothing!"

* * *

A/N: I love Yao, but I can't say the same for the PRC. Learning about the 'Great' Leap Forward was heartwrenching.


	20. Chapter 20

This, America thought, was one of the most awkward situations he could imagine.

It was after a UN meeting, and both he and Afghanistan had to use the bathroom. The shorter man did not look any more comfortable than he did, but nature was calling, so…

The seconds ticked by. They both finished at the same time, because God/Allah was sadistic. As Alfred headed towards the sink, he saw that Afghanistan was not doing the same. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, he turned towards the Middle Eastern nation.

"In my country, we wash our hands!"

Slowly, Hamasa turned around, a sneer playing on his lips.

"In my country, people do not piss on their hands."

* * *

A/N: Afghanistan in my OC. "Hamasa" is an Afghan name that means 'A heroic act'. Because I can.


	21. Chapter 21

"I don't want to."

"Comrade, please, a shift towards communism is what's needed!"

"Why do you keep calling me 'comrade'? Aren't I your sister anymore?" Ukraine looked tearfully up at her brother.

"Of course you are, Comrade Kat—"

"And another thing, Ivan. This new government of yours isn't perfect, at least not yet. I can't hand over my country to this system; it's too big of a risk."

"B—but Katyusha, communism _is_ perfect! Everyone will soon have what they need!" Ivan's face softened, reminding her of the days when he was nothing more than Kievan Rus; and she was his big sister, who he trusted more than anyone.

Biting her lower lip, Ukraine gave in a bit. "And what if there is a meat shortage, brother? I have one going on right now."

Ivan sensed that he was getting through to her. "Don't worry! All butcher's shops will have signs saying 'No One Needs Meat Today.'"

* * *

A/N: Is that Ukraine's real name? Does anyone know?


	22. Chapter 22

Smiling despite his hangover (and people doubted his superpower status!), Ivan stretched and looked out the window. Despite the typical Russian chill, the sun was out and shining, making the snow-covered buildings alsmost painful to look at.

"Good morning, Comrade Sun!" he all but chirped.

"Good morning to you as well, Comrade Ivan," it responded politely.

The morning passed rather quickly. Lunch was uneventful, except for Belarus' attempt to spike his soup and Estonia fainting after accidentally mistaking it for his own. On his way to the Kaiser, Ivan looked up and noticed that the sun was still clearly in the sky.

"Good afternoon, Comrade Sun."

"Ah, you too, Comrade Braginsky."

Business went as usual. Ivan got back home just as it was getting dark. Dumping his paperwork onto the bed, he went outside to the balcony just in time to catch the sunset.

"Good night, Comrade Sun."

There was no answer. He tried again, only to be met with more silence. Maybe he was too far away? Slightly frustrated, he raised his voice and called good night once more. The sun seemed to freeze for a second. Then it answered.

"Kiss my arse! I'm in the west now."

* * *

A/N: The Soviet years were dark. Pun perhaps intended.


	23. Chapter 23

Wang Yao could feel war coming on. He was thousands of years old; he saw plainly that the opium trade between him and England could never continue peacefully. Besides, the man had been entirely too interested in Hong Kong as of late, and he needed a lesson. But for now, Yao was stuck catering to him whenever he came to visit. His officials didn't want their supply of opium to dry up, after all.

Cursing his weak government, China gave England a stiff bow and set a tray down with a cup of tea (Earl Grey! As if _his_ tea wasn't good enough.)

"What would you like to eat tonight, aru?" he asked, struggling with the English words.

"Anything. What did you serve me last time?" the fair-haired man replied, looking bored.

"Fried lice."

China had the satisfaction of seeing the man choke for a split second. Then he frowned as he realized that it was from laughter.

"Fried rice, you mean?" England was smirking.

"That's what I said, aru."

From then on, England would pester him during every one of his visits to say "fried rice". And he would roar with laughter every time. It was insulting, and Yao couldn't take any more of it. One night, he stayed up practicing the phrase, trying to remove all traces of his accent. When daybreak came, he was satisfied that Arthur would be dealt quite a disappointment.

"What's for lunch, China?" England sounded positively gleeful.

"Fried rice, you plick."

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the long wait. But I'm back, so forgive me or else.


	24. Chapter 24

England fumbled for paper in his stationary drawer. News of some blasted "tea party" had reached his ears, and he had immediately gone to the pubs to try and forget he had ever even known the country responsible. Now he was back at home, questionably sober, and ready to vent.

"To the citizens of the United States of America...

In the light of your failure to carry out peaceful elections and thus to govern yourselves, we hereby give notice of the revocation of your independence, effective today. Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II will resume monarchical duties over all states, commonwealths and other territories. (Except Utah, which she does not fancy.) Your new prime minister will appoint a PM for America, without the need for further elections. Congress and the Senate will be disbanded. A questionnaire will be circulated next year to determine whether any of you noticed. To aid the transition to a British Crown Dependency, the following rules are introduced with immediate effect:

1. You should look up "revocation" in the Oxford English Dictionary. Then look up "aluminium". Check the pronunciation guide. You will be amazed at just how wrongly you have been pronouncing it. The letter 'U' will be reinstated in words such as 'favour' and 'neighbour'. skipping the letter 'U' is nothing more than laziness on your part. Likewise, you will learn to spell 'doughnut' without skipping half the letters. You will end your love affair with the letter 'Z' (pronounced 'zed' not 'zee'). You will learn that the suffix 'burgh is pronounced 'burra' e.g. Edinburgh. You are welcome to respell Pittsburgh as 'Pittsberg' if you can't cope with correct pronunciation. Generally, you should raise your vocabulary to acceptable levels. Look up "vocabulary". Using the same twenty seven words interspersed with filler noises such as "like" and "you know" is an unacceptable and inefficient form of communication. Look up "interspersed". There will be no more 'bleeps' in the Jerry Springer show. If you're not old enough to cope with bad language then you shouldn't have chat shows. When you learn to develop your vocabulary then you won't have to use bad language as often.

2. There is no such thing as "US English". We will let Microsoft know on your behalf. The Microsoft spell-checker will be adjusted to take account of the reinstated letter 'u'.

3. You should learn to distinguish the English and Australian accents. It really isn't that hard. English accents are not limited to Cockney, upper-class twit or Mancunian (Daphne in Frasier). You will also have to learn how to understand regional accents - Scottish dramas such as "Taggart" will no longer be broadcast with subtitles. While we're talking about regions, you must learn that there is no such place as Devonshire in England. The name of the county is "Devon". If you persist in calling it Devonshire, all American States will become "shires" e.g. Texasshire, Floridashire.

4. Hollywood will be required occasionally to cast English actors as the good guys. Hollywood will be required to cast English actors to play English characters. British sit-coms such as "Men Behaving Badly" or "Red Dwarf" will not be re-cast and watered down for a wishy-washy American audience who can't cope with the humour of occasional political incorrectness.

5. You should relearn your original national anthem, "God Save The Queen", but only after fully carrying out Task 1. We would not want you to get confused and give up half way through.

Briefly, England wondered if the God the song referred to was Catholic or Protestant. Shrugging, he turned back to the paper.

6. You should stop playing American "football". There is only one kind of football. What you refer to as American "football" is not a very good game. The 2.15% of you who are aware that there is a world outside your borders may have noticed that no one else plays "American" football. You will no longer be allowed to play it, and should instead play proper football. Initially, it would be best if you played with the girls. It is a difficult game. Those of you brave enough will, in time, be allowed to play rugby (which is similar to American "football", but does not involve stopping for a rest every twenty seconds or wearing full kevlar body armour like nancies). We are hoping to get together at least a US rugby sevens side by 2020. You should stop playing baseball. It is not reasonable to host an event called the 'World Series' for a game which is not played outside of America. In place of baseball, you will be allowed to play a girls' game called "rounders" which is baseball without fancy team strip, oversized gloves, collector cards, or hot dogs.

7. You should declare war on Quebec and France, using nuclear weapons if they give you any merde.

8. July 4th is no longer a public holiday. November 2nd will be a new national holiday, but only in England. It will be called "Indecisive Day".

9. All American cars are hereby banned. They are crap and it is for your own good. When we show you German cars, you will understand what we mean. All road intersections will be replaced with roundabouts. You will start driving on the left with immediate effect. At the same time, you will go metric with immediate effect and without the benefit of conversion tables. Roundabouts and metrication will help you understand the British sense of humour.

10. You will learn to make real chips. Those things you call French fries are not real chips. Fries aren't even French, they are Belgian; though most of you (including the guy who discovered fries while in Europe) are not aware of a country called Belgium. Those things you insist on calling potato chips are properly called "crisps". Real chips are thick cut and fried in animal fat. The traditional accompaniment to chips is beer, which should be served warm and flat. Waitresses will be trained to be more aggressive with customers.

11. As a sign of penance, 5 grams of sea salt per cup will be added to all tea made within the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, this quantity to be doubled for tea made within the city of Boston itself.

12. The cold tasteless stuff you insist on calling beer is not actually beer at all, it is lager. From now on only proper British Bitter will be referred to as "beer", and European brews of _known and accepted_ provenance will be referred to as "Lager". The substances formerly known as "American Beer" will henceforth be referred to as "Near-Frozen Gnats' Urine", with the exception of the product of the American Budweiser company, whose product will be referred to as "Weak Near-Frozen Gnats' Urine". This will allow true Budweiser (as manufactured for the last 1000 years in Pilsen, Czech Republic) to be sold without risk of confusion.

- Great (and don't you forget it, you twat) Britain

England looked down at the paper. His penmanship was slipping, but he figured it would do. He rummaged around for an envelope, suddenly in a better mood.

* * *

A/N: Not meant to offend. It just irks me that politics has become tatamount to a soap opera recently, and I figured our papa-figure would be annoyed too. Also, it pisses me off when someone thinks British and Australian accents are the same.


	25. Chapter 25

Austria sat primly across from Prussia. Yes, they were at a restaurant together, but it _was_ the albino's birthday, and Ludwig had begged him to distract Gilbert from going out drinking with his friends. The poor man was still paying off the collateral damage from last year's...celebration.

Unfortunately, they had wandered into a _French_ restaurant. Roderich kept looking nervously around to see if Francis was there. Once he satisfied himself that he was not, he tried to call a waiter over. No effect. Huffing, he raised his voice a bit.

"Pardo—"

"Ah, Roddy," Gilbert interrupted, grinning like a maniac. "These people are even snootier than you."

Perhaps they should've dressed for the occasion, since they were both in work clothes. But then it would've felt like a date, which this most certainly was not.

Minutes went by, and all of Roderich's attempts to hail a waiter fell flat. Finally Gilbert seemed to take pity on him. He leaned over confidentially.

"You wanna know how to get a Frenchman's attention?"

Roderich desperately hoped that it did not involve anything indecent. But the albino's reply was surprisingly logical.

"Start ordering in German."

* * *

A/N: GET IT? A joke referencing the fact that the French submitted to the German army during WWII? I'M BREAKING COMEDY GROUND!


	26. Chapter 26

A blonde man glanced furtively around. If it ever got out that _he_, France, was seeing a sex therapist—he could think of a certain Englishman who would never let him live it down.

"Francois, mon ami! How did it go last night?" Albert asked him, clipboard in hand. With a languishing sigh, France threw himself back onto the sofa cushions.

"Two men, one woman. Not bad, but...something's missing. Nothing ever makes me feel complete." he reported in a clipped tone.

Albert nodded in sympathy. France went on.

"Is there any way to judge, just by looking at a person, how...ah, _good_ they are?" he asked nervously. Too often he had been fooled by appearances.

"Well, there's a belief that a man's feet—"

"Mais bien sur!" France jumped up, grabbing his coat. "I will try that at once. A thousand thanks, Albert. I'll see you next week."

Five minutes later found him walking briskly through the streets of Paris, eyes trained on the ground. His features were set, and his eyes flashed in annoyance when he was held up by street traffic. Finally he spotted one man, a slim redhead, whose shoes were almost comically huge. With a wolfish grin, France made a beeline toward him.

The next few hours were spent wining and dining. He was the country of _romance_, after all, not simply passion, like his oblivious Spanish neighbour. Finally, the pair went back to his place. France couldn't contain his excitement.

The next morning, the redhead awoke to an empty bed and a twenty-euro note on the nightstand. The note beside it read:

"_With my compliments, please take this and buy a pair of shoes that actually fit."_

Outside, France was fuming into his cellphone while his therapist tried to hold his laughter.

* * *

AN: 20 euros is enough for shoes, right? Bah, semantics.


	27. Chapter 27

Japan almost missed Switzerland's normal brash demeanor. Currently he was laughing like a madman while the asian man trembled in a corner. Vash had a gun. Not the normal one he carried around everywhere, from world meetings to the beach. No, this one was a hulking monstrosity that looked like it could blow a Howitzer away.

"Look at my new baby! Isn't she precious?" Vash cooed. Japan managed a weak smile. Why was he even here again? Right, because he'd been too polite to refuse Switzerland-san's invitation to a weapons show. Where the man had spent a ridiculous amount of money for a designer gun.

"It—ah, she is lovely, Switzerland-san."

"I wanna try it. Do you mind standing in front of it with this apple on your head?" he pulled the fruit out of seemingly nowhere. Kiku paled.

"That sounds...unsafe."

"Psh," the other man waved a hand flippantly. "I'm not gonna shoot hard."

* * *

A/N: This is my new favorite pairing; second only to Germancest.


	28. Chapter 28

Gilbert groaned. His brother was right in giving Italy and Japan military training—but him? Where did the brat get the nerve?

"Have you forgotten who I _am_, West? Prussia; 'the army with a state', remember?"

"Nonetheless, we lost the last war. Let's not let that happen again, his brother said smoothly. Prussia gaped at him. Low blow.

"Everyone has a slump once in a while, even awesome people like me!"

"Bruder, pay attention. What formation is best for taking a walled city?"

"Fan."

"If the terrain is marshland, what is the best way to transport supplies?"

And so on. Prussia knew this shit, and West _knew_ he knew this shit. So Gilbert started messing with his little brother.

"What is the best way to halt a Polish cavalry advance?"

"Turn off the carousel."

* * *

A/N: Firstly, Prussia referenced Voltaire's famous quote that "While some states have an army, the Prussian army has a state!" And second, I've discovered an awesome Facebook group called Bring Back Prussian Blue. Because Crayola did the world a great harm in abolishing that color. I am therefore using my questionable influence as a beloved (?) author to urge you to join.


	29. Chapter 29

"Mike...I mean Mattie!"

"Hi, Alfred."

"Wanna hear a joke?"

Wondering if this was the sole reason his brother had decided to drop by, Canada nodded warily.

"Okay, if you don't get it then I'm annexing you," he patted his brother's head. "What does a Canadian say when you step on his foot?"

The very personification of Canada found himself at a loss for words. Ten or so seconds passed, and Alfred decided that was enough. H e giggled a bit before delivering the punchline.

"Sorry!"

* * *

AN: If it makes you feel better, Alfred was attacked by a polar bear on his way out.


	30. Chapter 30

Upon spotting the water leaking below deck, England sprang into action. An hour later, his efforts, as well as those of the crew, had proved insufficient. They were going down.

Seeing as how he was almost across the channel, France was the closest. Cursing his luck, England pulled out his cellphone and called him. Surprisingly, the man answered on the first ring.

"Angleterre, to what do I owe zis—"

"Can it, frog. I need you over here," England quickly gave his coordinates. "I'm sinking."

There was no response. England repeated his words.

"Oui...zat is très interesting...who are you zinking about?" came the playful response.

* * *

A/N: Thirty chapters...my way of thanking you all for waiting so long.


	31. Chapter 31

A double-decker bus screeched to a stop as an albino man practically threw himself before it. The driver grumpily allowed him aboard, not even noticing his blonde companion.

"Ha! Told ya the awesome me would get us home somehow, Mattie!" he cackled.

Canada didn't bother to protest that he could've gotten killed. Besides, he couldn't have even if he'd wanted to. He was currently mellowed out on...ah, suffice it to say that his eyes were just as red a Prussia's.

Unfortunately, the bus only had two seats free; one on top and one below. So Canada stumbled up the steps, waving a lazy goodbye. Prussia promised to tell him when they arrived at Matthew's house. They rode in silence for a few minutes. Then Prussia called up to him,

"Hey, Mattie! We're almost there, how's your ride?"

Canada yelled back in a scratchy voice, "I'm still waiting for the driver!"

* * *

A/N: I totally belive that's a Maple Leaf on your flag, Matt! Really!


	32. Chapter 32

Ludwig handed Alfred the keys to a new fighter jet with no small amount of trepidation. Ever since the invasion of Iraq, the American had been going through planes like he did burgers. But when he'd come to Germany requesting a new, simpler fighter plane, a tough economy had forced Ludwig to accept. He was now explaining how the machine worked.

"It's very simple. There is a button here," he pointed to a bright yellow dot, "for firing."

"Uh-huh."

"This arrow pointing left obviously turns left. And—"

"The one on the right turns right!" Alfred interrupted, grinning.

"That is correct." was the clipped response.

"Awesome! Luddy ol' buddy, I don't know how to thank you!" Alfred swung an arm around his shoulders. Ludwig tensed and managed to squirm out of his grip.

"If that is all, I will be going—"

"Wait!" Alfred's eyes widened. "You never told me how I come down!"

He was going to tell him to merely read the instruction manual, but years with Gilbert had sharpened his wit and shortened his temper.

"I'll let the Iraqis take care of that," he answered.

* * *

A/N: I realize that America has it's own engineers...but all the ones I've seen are first-generation citizens, born to immigrant parents. Which made me kinda sad. Alfred, all those burgers are making you lazy.


	33. Chapter 33

Despite the history between them, Gilbert didn't have anything in particular against Lithuania. So when Ivan ordered the pair of them to clean the cellar, he didn't complain as much as he would've had he been paired with, say, Belarus.

The two worked in silence for a while, punctuated by Gilbert's odd curses one in a while. Finally, Toris put down the broom and sighed.

"You shouldn't be so angry. At least you know your brother is working to get you out."

The only response he got was a grunt, but Gilbert's shoulders had tensed. They went back to work, but a few minutes later, he burst out— "What am I supposed to do? My people are suffering under him. If he rations one more thing I'll..."

"You could at least try to be positive," Lithuania offered. The ex-nation gave a wry smile.

"I guess it's not all bad. Did you know I recently beat France 7-5?"

"Really?" Lithuania's head perked up. "Was it in a football match?"

"Nah," the albino man adjusted his scarf. "In days per week spent working."

* * *

A/N: Personally, I'm tickled that the German team still plays in Prussian colours.


	34. Chapter 34

A fresh slap mark bright against his cheek, France walked jauntily through the streets of Nice. He paused at he spotted a cathedral. Memories of centuries past flooded his mind. It was true he had become rather...lax in his religious observance lately. Out of nostalgia, he decided to go in.

Once inside, it became apparent that confessions were going on. France took a place in line, and soon enough it was his turn. He stepped fluidly into the confessional box.

"How long has it been since your last confession, my child?"

About eighty years, give or take. But he couldn't exactly say that. So he muttered that it had been a few months.

"I see. And what are you sorry for?"

Truthfully, France had no regrets. Modernism was still strong in his country, and he didn't see the point in mourning the past. He'd done that enough for several lifetimes.

"I...ah, have committed vanity, Father," he improvised. "Twice a day I look at myself in the mirror and tell myself how perfect I am." It was probably around seven times, but only two were said out loud, so he supposed he was telling the truth, in a way.

Suddenly, the screen separating him and the priest slid to the side. The old man looked at him with penetrating black eyes nestled in wrinkles. It was almost unnerving. Then he sat back abruptly and made himself comfortable again. He turned to the dumbstruck nation in front of him.

"Good news, my son. That is no sin, merely a mistake."

* * *

A/N: I just realized that I have no idea how long this collection is going to be. I'll be updating until I die, I guess.


	35. Chapter 35

Gilbert looked up blearily up at his brother, who was frowning from his place on the couch. How the guy could stay so serious despite all the beer pumped into him was beyond Gilbert, but it still bugged him.

"How many Polacks it take to screw in a lightbulb?"

There was a brief pause, during which Ludwig contemplated that falling off his seat must have given the albino a concussion. Or that the alcohol consumed over centuries had finally killed off his last brain cell.

"Firstly, the correct term would be Pole, Gilbert. Second, it's not really polite to—"

"Wrong! It takes three!" Gilbert began laughing maniacally, then stopped and looked shockingly pensive for a second. "Wait, didn't tell it right. Umm...why does it take three Pollys to screw in a lightbulb?"

"I don't know how we're related—"

"Because they're—ach, man! Loosen up!" Gilbert didn't bother to get up again and continued drinking from his position on the floor. "It's called humor. Don'tcha get it?

"No bruder, I don't."

"Huh. I guess that's the kinda joke they call a way-homer. You only get it on the way home."

"We are home."

"How many Germans does it take to screw in a lightbulb?" Gilbert asked, stifling a burp. Before Ludwig could throw back a scathing retort—

"One. Most efficient."

* * *

A/N: I like the idea of these two casually drinking at home. Ah, to have Hungary's camera's...the stories they could tell...


	36. Chapter 36

The Industrial Revolution was underway, and England couldn't have been more pleased. Well, maybe if the smoke thinned out a bit...but then again he was used to shitty weather. More importantly, there had been new advances made in medicine, which he was grateful for since Ireland had been coughing for the past few months but stubbornly refused to tell his brother what was wrong.

"I'm tellin' ya all docs are quacks. 'Member the time they said I had the plague an' it was on'y food poisonin'?"

"That was three hundred years ago," Arthur tactfully ignored the jibe, since it had been his cooking that had thrown his brother into that state. "I'm sure the field of diagnostics has improved."

"Psh." Ireland was cut off by a fit of coughs. "Don't gimme that sympathy-glare, ya pansy."

"Look," England was losing his patience. "The blood tests are over. All they require now is a urine sample."

"What's a urine sample?" the Irishman's eyes were wide and, for once, completely frank. And that drove England over the edge.

"Bloody hell—go piss in a bottle!"

"Well, go shit in yer hat!"

And the fight was on.

* * *

A/N: My aunt's visiting from Northern CA, and she brought gifts. I got a colorbock dress that looks like the Irish flag and squealed in delight; hence this chapter.


	37. Chapter 37

"Hey! Iraq!"

Azerbaijan practically skipped up to him, her long hair swinging free of it's usual headscarf. He frowned minutely; what did the kid (technically woman but still younger than him, so eh.) want now?

"C'mon, I won Eurovision, remember? We're having a party!"

"Who's 'we'?" he asked suspiciously.

"Me, Albania, Russia, Romania, we even got Turkey and Armenia to tolerate each other for a few hours, Kuwait, Iran—"

"Then no," he said sourly.

"B-but...Egypt is coming too!" her eyes glinted as Iraq immediately flushed.

"No," he repeated, firmer this time.

"Ah! What am I ever gonna do with you, old man?" she teasingly poked his cheek. "Don't you wanna have fun for once? Get drunk and—"

"No thanks, I can get bombed at home."

* * *

A/N: Slightly darker humor, I'll admit. But who else is psyched about Baku 2012?


	38. Chapter 38

"Do you have change for a ten-pound note, Alfred?"

"Sure, brah."

"That's my language you're desecrating, brat. We'll try again: do you have change for a ten-pound note?"

"No, _sir_!"

* * *

A/N: Guess the speakers.


End file.
